


Do you love him?

by 62miles



Series: Anosmia [2]
Category: SHINee
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 11:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4605558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/62miles/pseuds/62miles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He tastes like salt, Minho thinks.</p><p>And smoke.</p><p>And wind and summer and anger and resignation and everything that's ugly and wrong with him.</p><p> </p><p>And everything that's right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do you love him?

**Author's Note:**

> The second piece I'm posting under this series. It used to be chapter 2. Chronologically, it occurs earlier than "[Will you think of me sometimes?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4599504)".

 

 

  
  
 _Smoke; mirrors_  
  
  
  
  
  
Minho comes out of the bathroom to the sight of an empty bed, freshly remade, pillows lined up against the headboard, all in order.  
  
  
It's still something he can't get used to.  
  
  
The books that he remembers knocking over have picked themselves up. The clothes that littered the floor earlier now occupy the lone recliner, one stack neatly folded and lying on the seat, a few other articles draped over the back.  
  
  
The closet door is ajar with an empty hanger on its handle, quietly announcing what has been borrowed.  
  
  
 _He's a strange one._  
  
  
  
  
When Minho checks the bedside table, there is only a half-empty pack of cigarettes.  
  
  
He counts ten; none are missing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It is too dark to see in the too empty living room.  
  
  
But the other man isn't all that hard to spot.  
  
  
A smudge of white beyond the glass balcony door—Jinki practically glows.  
  
  
It's almost like rising out of the water.  
  
  
Everything becomes sharper, the lights, the sounds.  
  
  
The wind sends those dark locks flying and it gets a little hard to tell where his hair ends and the night begins. But the skin at the back of his neck is pale. Pale and smooth.  
  
  
Minho closes the door behind him; Jinki doesn't turn around.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _What are you doing?_  
  
  
It sounds almost accusatory. So when Minho opens his mouth, something else comes out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Why are you doing the house cleaner's job?"  
  
  
A small familiar noise answers him.  
  
  
Jinki's colors look a little less washed out around the edges.  
  
  
"I pay her for a reason."  
  
  
"Do you?" He mumbles distractedly.  
  
  
Minho places a kiss behind Jinki's ear and reach around to grab the hand with which the other man is holding Minho's lighter. The wind yanks on the flame, trying to spirit it away, but the windscreen keeps it anchored. Minho tilts the thing towards himself and blows—  
  
  
It goes out like a candle.  
  
  
Clunk.  
  
  
The hinged lid closes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"I'm not sure how obvious I've made it, but I'm pretty rich."  
  
  
Jinki laughs. A short sound. Minho finds that he doesn't like it.  
  
  
"You can house a family in that living room!" Jinki jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "And maybe five more in your other house."  
  
  
"And three in my wine closet."  
  
  
"That's a conservative guess. And please, _closet_ my ass."  
  
  
"Four hundred and ninety-seven bottles."  
  
  
"...are a lot."  
  
  
"Not enough to call it a cellar."  
  
  
"By whose standards?"  
  
  
"By professional standards. In spite of which I _can_ afford pants."  
  
  
" _Right_ —" He drags out the syllable "—because I can buy an island or something with your Romanée-Conti collection alone. What's your point?"  
  
  
"My point is I do own more than one pair you know."  
  
  
Jinki looks down at his bare legs.  
  
  
"I forget where you keep them. Your no-ironing-required pants."  
  
  
"In the drawers. Under the one for my belts and ties."  
  
  
Jinki hums in response.  
  
  
Clink—he flips the lid open again and lights it.  
  
  
  
  
Minho draws his mouth down the arch of Jinki's neck and mumble into the softness of the other man's skin.  
  
  
  
  
"The nice thing is, I also own slippers."  
  
  
"Well I don't see _you_ wearing any."  
  
  
"You haven't even looked!"  
  
  
Jinki looks.  
  
  
A pair of bare feet greets him.  
  
  
Minho gets an elbow to his chest.  
  
  
Chuckling into Jinki's hair, Minho pulls a cigarette out of the pack from the bedside table that he'd stuffed into his pocket earlier and reclaims his lighter from Jinki's slightly cold fingers.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Why are you out here?"  
  
  
Clunk.  
  
  
Jinki takes the lighter back as soon as Minho is done using it.  
  
  
"It's cooler out here."  
  
  
"My AC is on."  
  
  
Something is always going on when Jinki doesn't make sense. But then again, something has been going on ever since Minho met him.  
  
  
"I wanted fresh air."  
  
  
"Sure."  
  
  
Minho deliberately blows the smoke straight out so the wind carries it right into the other man's face.  
  
  
The reaction is immediate.  
  
  
Jinki clamps a hand over his nose and mouth. The coughs follow. He looks a little too skinny under the fabric of Minho's shirt, but that's something neither of them can help.  
  
  
Minho clamps down on the scowl before it can wrinkle his brow. Instead, he takes another drag.  
  
  
  
  
Suddenly, Jinki poises himself to climb over the railing.  
  
  
Minho finds his body moving before his mind does and he has an arm hooked around the other man's waist before he gets the first leg over. Jinki doesn't fight Minho; he acts as if Minho doesn't exist.  
  
  
  
  
"What..."  
  
  
Minho can't see Jinki's face but he can feel the quiver in the other man's body. Those white knuckles betray him.  
  
  
Minho's forearm presses back deeper into Jinki's stomach as he settles himself into position, legs swinging loosely.  
  
  
  
  
Minho can feel the weight of his heart, sitting behind his Adam's apple.  
  
  
  
  
"This is the fucking _thirty-fifth_ floor."  
  
  
  
  
One of Jinki's hands lets go as if he doesn't hear Minho's growl; it's the hand with the lighter.  
  
  
Clink.  
  
  
  
  
"You'll die if you fall."  
  
  
  
  
Jinki holds the flame closer to his face, but now it somehow barely colors the tip of his nose.  
  
  
  
  
"Then don't let go."  
  
  
  
  
He grabs the cigarette from Minho's fingers and holds it out, turning it this way and that, both of his hands now off the railing.  
  
  
  
  
"Don't let go, or else clean me off the pavement. And pay for my funeral, too."  
  
  
  
  
Clunk.  
  
  
He cradles the lighter against his body and lifts the cigarette up to the spot of white hanging in the sky.  
  
  
  
  
"You can see the moon..." He singsongs.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
And Minho finally asks—  
  
  
"Do you love him?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It's a wild guess. Jinki stiffens.  
  
  
"What?"  
  
  
"Do you love him?" Minho's eyes are on the cigarette as Jinki takes it gingerly between his lips.  
  
  
"Who?"  
  
  
He doesn't manage much more of a denial before he's coughing again.  
  
  
Minho sinks his teeth into the flesh of the other man's shoulder.  
  
  
Not out of retribution of course. That's too childish.  
  
  
"You asshole!"  
  
  
In pain, Jinki struggles against Minho's hold.  
  
  
"I'll vomit out the quail and the truffle sauce if you don't loosen your arm!" He wheezes, shaky hands somehow managing to drop neither the cigarette nor the lighter.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Minho doesn't speak.  
  
  
Jinki settles back down.  
  
  
Minho's fingers ghost over Jinki's ribs.  
  
  
The silence stretches.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
But then Jinki speaks.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Have you ever had a friend, a really good friend, who moved somewhere far away?"  
  
  
He sounds wistful.  
  
  
"Of course there's email and telephone and the Internet, but maybe you fell out of touch?"  
  
  
He puts the cigarette to his mouth again.  
  
  
"It kinda sucks because the two of you really got along, but you know, what can you do? Life goes on. He's probably out there, living out his dream, maybe even better than how you're living out yours. Maybe he's married. Maybe he has kids."  
  
  
He's telling a story. Minho doesn't know if it's his.  
  
  
"But you can't talk to him."  
  
  
Jinki's voice gets a little thin. Minho takes the cigarette back.  
  
  
"And you can't see him either."  
  
  
Jinki's fingertip traces along all the edges of the lighter's metal case.  
  
  
"And the only things you've got are the memories."  
  
  
Clink.  
  
  
"Memories of the good old days."  
  
  
Clunk.  
  
  
"Memories of what you two did while you still had enough youth left, between the two of you, in your back pockets, to afford the recklessness."  
  
  
Clink.  
  
  
"Memories of the way he looked, thirty years ago."  
  
  
Clunk.  
  
  
"But you can't make new ones."  
  
  
 _But you're only twenty-five, not even twenty-five_ , Minho wants to say.  
  
  
"It makes you kind of sad because you've lost a friend. But it's not so bad."  
  
  
Jinki leans back into Minho.  
  
  
"It's not so bad because he's out there somewhere. And he's fine. He's just fine."  
  
  
  
  
"Is he?" Minho asks aloud.  
  
  
  
  
"Isn't this sort of like what happens when someone dies? Don't you think?" Jinki ignores Minho's question. "If I tell you I've moved somewhere far away but not where to. If I stop answering your calls. Stop answering your texts. If I fall off the balcony railing of some building's thirty-fifth floor and you aren't there and you can't do anything and you don't know and you _never_ know.  
  
  
"If I die like that, it wouldn't be so bad, right? I'd just be another—we count as friends right?—another friend you've lost touch with and can't talk to and can't see.  
  
  
"It'd be a pity, but it wouldn't be so bad."  
  
  
Minho's other arm wraps around Jinki too.  
  
  
  
  
"It wouldn't be so bad."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Minho gets it.  
  
  
This is about him.  
  
  
Not about Jinki's _him_ , but Minho's _him_.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Would you believe it if I told you I've never seen the ocean?"  
  
  
Jinki straightens out both of his legs and splays his toes.  
  
  
They're ghostly white against a sea of orange stars.  
  
  
"I've read about the beach in books, seen it on TV. We used a sand bath once in a chemistry experiment back in high school. It's mostly just silicon dioxide, or calcium carbonate, depending on which beach you're on, but..."  
  
  
His head drops against Minho's shoulder.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Do you want to go?"  
  
  
"Go where?" Jinki plays dumb.  
  
  
"You _could_ buy an island with my Romanée-Conti, but why bother when my brother already has an island?"  
  
  
"An actual island?"  
  
  
"A wedding gift from my parents."  
  
  
"God you people are crazy."  
  
  
"It's a little far but we can go tomorrow. We can go any time."  
  
  
"And your brother wouldn't mind?"  
  
  
"He can learn to share."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Jinki finally turns around  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"I don't have a passport."  
  
  
His arms loop around Minho's neck; Minho can feel the coolness where the lighter digs a little into the tip of his shoulder.  
  
  
Jinki cards his fingers through Minho's still moist hair.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He tastes like salt, Minho thinks.  
  
  
And smoke.  
  
  
  
And wind and summer and anger and resignation and everything that's ugly and wrong with him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
And everything that's right.  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
